Posts from the ‘NYC’ Category

Apr 12

Butcher Bay

Non-shocker: Butcher Bay calls it quits. Looks like I'll be getting dragged to Choptank on a Lent Friday this year. (2/1/2010)

I was a little hesitant to try Butcher Bay after so many lukewarm-to-negative reviews, but generally when someone suggests trying a restaurant I’m open (as long as it’s not middling Thai). I’m not a controller of all things edible. James liked what he'd read in The Village Voice and thought it would be a good candidate for the fish on Friday tradition that I'm surprised he's still adhering to.

It turned out to be very much as I'd expected: affable, better than adequate but probably not a destination if you're not in the East Village. I'd go back if it were in my neighborhood. And the staff was unusually friendly. It’s nice to be reminded that not all servers are of the surly/spacey variety I often encounter.

There's something about the East Village that doesn't bother me as much as Carroll Gardens even though the vibe at the ungodly dining hour of 6:30 was much like ours: family time in a big way, but the breastfeeding I witnessed managed to be less self-righteous and dour and more natural and cute. Did I just say that? I don't care how un-feminist, anti-woman it makes me, I’m not crazy about public breastfeeding, there's already precious lack of privacy in the city as it is.

Hush puppies are always bready blobs that taste more of flour and cornmeal than whatever they might be flavored with. These contained shrimp and their presence was subtle.

The clam strips were meaty and chewy and the remoulade was more likeable than tartar sauce. A friend who joined James and I for dinner made a statement about bellies along the lines of them being a bit too animal-like, you know you're eating a creature (I’m extrapolating a bit here). This comes from a non-fish, non-meat-with bones eating person but I'm not going to make fun of that because she is convinced that I will always call her out for something. Not this, though. We'll get to her later…

Fish and chips. I didn't taste these but James thought they were fine and not soggy or doughy as reported somewhere I can't recall. Obviously, that criticism struck a chord with the owner because he brought it up after asking about my picture-taking. No one ever asks me why I’m snapping photos, oddly enough, and I’m not complaining. I guess it's like not staring a celebrities in public, ignore the food bloggers; they're a dime a dozen.

I'm more thrifty out of principle than pure necessity. I don't like paying over $20 for casual food for the same reason I hate buying single items of clothing over $40: because I’m cheap. So, the $24 lobster roll wasn't really my style, but I cut loose anyway. An unorthodox specimen in its seeming absence of mayonnaise but I'm not complaining since I do not love the stuff. It does work to keep the jumble of meat together, though, while this one kept losing its filling. Chopped parsley and celery rounded out the rest of the ingredients.

Ok, the friend's food. The potato salad was standard issue, fine, but the pork was on the dry side. Here's the rub: should one order pork in a restaurant that's styled itself as a seafood shack? We all have different criteria and expectations. I try not to deviate wildly from what I perceive to be an eatery's strengths unless I'm swayed by something so off and bizarre that it needs exploring. Yesterday, I resisted ordering nachos at Sukhadia’s, a vegetarian Indian chain. I’ll never know if I was wise in playing it safe or if I missed out on a rare delicacy.

I was glad to see that Sophie's, a few storefronts down, was still thriving. I will always remember it as the venue for my non-date with Henry Thomas over a decade ago and he later mentioned in a phone call, "Oh, I'm meeting some friends at Sohpie's" as if it were his spot despite the fact that he'd never heard of it until a week prior. E-List celebrities have a way of getting under your skin with their insensitivity.

It reminds me of a story I've told before about a friend who went to high school with John Stamos and in the mid-‘80s ran into him in the audience of some California production of Grease starring Belinda Carlisle. Stamos told my friend he was having a party and would call him. He. Never. Did. That, my friends, is called being Stamosed. We've all been there.

Butcher Bay * 511 E. Fifth Ave., New York, NY

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Apr 7

Char No. 4

1/2 The tickly smell of smoke did hit me when I entered Char No. 4 but it wasn't an assault. I'm afraid that I've become desensitized to the strong fragrance due to periodic household experiments with a mini smoker. Venting the fumes towards an open door helps but keeping the apartment from smelling like a piece of jerky is nearly impossible.

I chose to use my experience with smoked food as fodder for my Spanish class response to "What did you do last week?" a question I stumble through every Thursday. But it only caused my teacher to ask if it was normal to keep a smoker in one's apartment and if that didn't bother the neighbors (he lives directly above Caputo's and says that smoke wafts into his apartment–what do they smoke in house, I wonder?). Well, as long as those neighbors continue to use the tiny foyer, a.k.a. the ten feet in front of my door as a stroller parking lot, I don’t care if the entire building reeks like a giant campfire. But I couldn't say this in Spanish because I didn't know the word for stroller or foyer and besides, it's tough to convey humor coupled with disdain in my painfully slow, dimwitted second language style.

So, post-11pm is a good bet if you insist on weekend dining since that's when the ratio of bar drinkers to back room sit-downers begins to shift. The restaurant may look mobbed from the street but it's just whisky sippers crowding the space in the front.

With 100+ choices ranging from one ounce of Fighting Cock for $3 to a $100 portion of Old Grommes 121 Proof, there’s something at all price points (none of that $120 per glass MacCutcheon Scotch). If I were feeling more flush I would experiment a bit more. As it stood, I tried a two-ounce pour of Woodford Reserve. Not so adventurous.

I was most interested in the fried pork nuggets and they weren’t disappointing. The soft centers contrasted with the crispy surface of the cubes like a meaty petit four. What they refer to as Char No. 4 hot sauce seemed like Sriracha to me, not that I mind since it’s my condiment of choice for nearly all fried food. Something about the heat cuts the fattiness.

While I expected greatness from the above pork, I actually preferred the fried cheddar cheese curds (once the fried food floodgates have opened there's no stopping). The firm chewiness worked even better with the crusty exterior. I assumed the creamy (bucking that hot with fatty trend) lightly spiced dipping sauce was remoulade but it’s described as pimento sauce. That’s a lot of orange on one plate.

The city is rife with pulled pork sandwiches, so many that I’m not always sure I should bother. They can't all be special. I do think this one was above average because of the whole package. The meat was moist, more chunky than shredded, and mixed with a barbecue sauce that tasted vaguely creamy and mustardy. The bun was toasted, which is very important to me, and the pickled onions and peppers added just enough heat and tartness. The baked beans weren’t bad either.

I shied away from the proper entrees because after a few ounces of whiskey priced in the double digits, the bill adds up. James wanted to try the smoked chicken, though, since it’s a meat we haven’t attempted in our smoker yet. Wanting to learn more about the preparation, he piped up, “I had a question?” to which our waitress responded a bit defensively, “The pink?” Clearly she was tired of explaining the poultry's doneness despite the deceptively rosy color. Uh no, just the details on how they keep their chicken juicy and not overly smoked. The answer, as it turned out, was using a pickle brine, and smoking at 225 for one hour. We’ll test it out.

Char No. 4 * 196 Smith St., Brooklyn, NY

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Mar 30

10 Downing

No mention of 10 Downing seems complete without noting how much noise the highly windowed flatiron space generates. Perhaps I'm hard of hearing but the sound level barely registered with me. In fact, I prefer a raucous hum—especially among tightly packed tables—it creates an aural blanket so you can at least have a facsimile of a private meal. On the upside, I didn’t get crammed into a row of two-tops either. A spacious corner banquette miraculously opened up, making the 15-minute wait well worth the temporary smooshiness. The narrow holding pen really can't contain the crowds that amass. After being seated just beyond the far end of the bar, drinkers began spilling over into the dining area behind the back of our L-shaped seat. Our waiter offered to shoo them away but I didn't want to be that kind of asshole.

The menu is one of those hand-wringers where so much is going on that I'm not sure how to compose my meal. Pastas in two sizes, small plates, charcuterie, grilled prawns by the piece, then full sized mains. If I weren't self-conscious I would've ordered the whole cured meat shebang but knowing I read somewhere that it could easily feed three-to-four diners made me balk (though I recall a similar portion suggestion for the charcroute at Irving Mill and thought it was totally acceptable for two). Plus, I wanted to try at least one other item.

10 downing pork belly rillettes & duck prosciutto

I lamed out and selected two meaty treats: pork belly rillettes and duck prosciutto. And yes, it was plenty. The thing about rillettes is that once the main ingredient has been moussed it's not like you can discern the original cut of meat (At least I can't, and also lack the palate to discern fat percentages and meat sources comprising hamburger patties.) The spread was rich and definitely porcine but I would never be able to identify it was pork belly. Duck prosciutto is a great idea since the dark meat is rightly rich, oily and striped with a nice white stripe of fat, like pork prosciutto plus. (Timely: one of the gifts I gave James later than evening was a copy of Charcuterie, mainly for the smoker recipes but there is also one for duck prosciutto I want to try. Also timely: my opening up directly to a passage about Charles Ingalls, a recent fascination, and his venison smoking practices in Little House in the Big Woods,) Accompaniments included mini apple cubes flavored with mustard and pickled green beans, carrots and cauliflower.

10 downing brussels sprouts anchovy vinaigrette poached egg & parmesan

I'm always happy with hearty winter vegetables like brussels sprouts and these were pleasers keeping in the style of the restaurant: rich, strong and shy of overwhelming. The runny yolk, anchovy vinaigrette, sharp parmesan shavings and breadcrumbs melded everything together. I recreated a not-half-bad rendition of this dish for dinner last night.

Mild disappointment set in when we were told upon being presented with menus that the porchetta special was a goner. Decimated by 8:15 pm? Oh well. I wasn't immediately drawn to any of the entrees either. I could've ordered another appetizer instead but wanted to see how the mains played out.

10 downing duck breast pickled figs tokyo turnips & shallot marmalade

Duck breast with Tokyo turnips satisfied my obvious taste for root vegetables and dark meat poultry. I felt like all of the components remained separate, not just visually, the flavors didn't want to integrate either. Turnips were firm and bitter, the figs were soft and pickled sweet and sour, the grass green swaths were beautiful but didn’t taste distinctive. Everything looked pretty and the meat was cooked just rare enough but the overall impression was flatness. Or maybe sense of taste had been dulled after the more aggressive starters.

10 downing beef cheeks saffron cabbage bone marrow soubise mustard spaetzle

Braised beef cheeks, saffron cabbage, bone marrow soubise, mustard spaetzle.

10 downing chocolate cake almond ganache salted caramel with malted gelato

I don't know how I fell for the molten cake. I refuse to knowingly order those damn soft-centered pucks out of some misplaced anger at their pervasiveness across all cuisines and strata of restaurants, highbrow and low. The description just said chocolate cake. How could I have known? Of course it was wonderfully gooey and pleasant. The malted gelato and crackly salt caramel topping is what made the dish, though.

Just like how Momofuku Ko waylaid me with their music (I'm still baffled that someone on a message board scoffing a bit at my typically tangent-filled write up referred to me as a "he." Do I sound like a dude when I write?) 10 Downing divided my attention with the art. The more I drink (two glasses of Cote du Rhones with dinner and two glasses of a random happy hour Italian red at Dove Parlor earlier) the more I focus on things other than the food. Not a crime when they are distractions I enjoy. I never thought I'd live to encounter a collage containing Mark Lester in the bathroom of a West Village restaurant serving $27 entrees.

The dining room features a pleasing hodgepodge of paintings and photos curated by Tracy Williams, Ltd. From my seat closer to where the angles of the room converge into a triangle there were no walls. However, I was face-to-face with a row of black and white publicity shots and drawings of what appeared to be child stars, though I only recognized a few faces. An infant head covered in a blanket, Spanky from Little Rascals, pupil-less Orphan Annie from the comic and Jonathan Ke Quan, the Asian nerd from The Goonies. Though it's not likely apparent from this here blog, in past online and print lives I devoted quite a bit of energy to child stars, E.T.'s Henry Thomas being number one. In my Portland days I decorated my studio apartment with framed photos of Ike Eisenmann, Peter Ostrum, Mark Lester and the like. At the time it never occurred to me that this would be an appropriate motif for a trendy restaurant.

I'm not sure if this series on 10 Downing's wall was art or décor (I haven't yet deduced who the creator is). I do know that it endeared me to a restaurant that I otherwise might've categorized as solid but typical of what's currently en vogue. Strange how these things work. I'm emotional not rational, and even though I've smartly closed the gap significantly with age my impression of brussels sprouts can still be enhanced by the presence of long forgotten juvenile actors.

10 Downing * 10 Downing, New York, NY

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Mar 26

Pa is My Co-Pilot

I have a particular fondness for Michael Landon’s touching portrayal of Charles Ingalls, a.k.a. Pa on Little House on the Prairie (I swear more than once I caught my own dad’s eyes welling up with tears during an episode. He was full of paternal pioneer spirit, too) as well as smoked comestibles, so a friend’s impromptu birthday celebration at Diamond in Greenpoint served me well. By the way, have you ever seen the real Charles Ingalls? He sported some seriously au courant facial hair.

Never a beer aficionado, I just discovered rauchbier, a German smoked beverage that tastes like a campfire. A little goes a long way as I’ve been discovering with the newish smoker in my household. (I will soon be experimenting with different flavors—cherry, hickory, alder—since last night I gave a wood pellet assortment to James as one of his birthday gifts. He shares the same date of birth as Jane, who was the guest of honor at Diamond, but missed out since he was out of town.) If they can mentholate beer, why not add smoky overtones?

I need to stop complaining about the state of dining in my neighborhood because Greenpoint seems unusually bereft of choice. I have plenty of options in Carroll Gardens and environs; I just don’t happen to like many of them. If you don’t want mediocre Japanese, Thai or even exemplary Polish what do you do?

I ended up at "Mediterranean Bistro" Lokal, primarily because it was close the subway, en route to drinks afterwards and inoffensive enough (probably a little too inoffensive). Pork ragu with handmade pasta was actually pretty good and soft enough that I could justify eschewing the mush-only wisdom tooth extraction regimen I’d been following. It's not the most attractive plate of food but it was very satisfying.

The birthday season has begun and the first of my fellow 1972ers has turned 37. The greatness of that number shocks me. Thankfully, I still have four months to spend staving it off.

On the upside, I was able to convince a few guests to pose with Pa. My favorite bar decor so far this year.

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Mar 23

King Yum

I wish I had known I was going to be in Floral Park earlier in the day so I could’ve tried Keralan food for lunch. In fact, I wish I had known quite a few things before heading to the Queens/Long Island border early Saturday evening. One being that the movie theater I was looking for that was still playing Swedish teen vampire movie, Let the Right One In, (don't tell me Robert Pattinson is hotter than this kid with zero pigmentation and a pageboy) was housed in the lower arcade of a retirement community. Two, that Let the Right One In had been replaced with He’s Just Not That Into You.

Sure, there was a theater 30-minutes away in the East Village also showing the film but I was intrigued by what Northshore Towers Twin Cinemas far into the outerborough fringes could possibly be like. I was relishing the prospect of an empty house in a weirdo location and as the black-and-white checked finish flag appeared on the GPS device when I all I could see were three ‘60s era co-op towers looming in the middle of a field adjacent to the Grand Central Parkway, I became more intrigued.

While the Northshore Towers website paints the property as luxury residences, all I saw were walkers, canes and oxygen tanks. In the basement of the Beaumont building, you’ll find a gussied up diner filled with middle aged children dining with their parents, a grocery store for tenants only and a cinema with a hard ass security guard.

We were told we had to wait behind the velvet rope because the previous movie hadn’t let out yet. We were the only expectant patrons so I had time to scrutinize the Xeroxed movie schedule taped up on the glassed enclosure and was alarmed to see that Let the Right One In had been whited out and He’s Just Not That Into You had been scrawled on top in block letters. Argh. My plan was too good to be true. After asking the humorless gatekeeper which movie was actually playing, she went downstairs fetched the manager, a younger brunette version of the Crypt Keeper (god bless your soul, Geocities), who had no idea what we were talking about.

He was all, “Er, I just play what they send me.” It was finally determined that he had no idea what Let the Right One In was and that it was never sent. I have absolutely no idea how it ended up on Moviefone in the first place (the schedule on the theater’s website is currently for the week of March 6-12 so no clue there). A white haired couple had appeared by this point and after noting the painful romantic comedy, slowly shuffled away.

The only thing I could think of that would soften my disappointment was finally being able to pay a visit to old-school Americanized Cantonese King Yum in nearby Fresh Meadows. How would it stack up compared to Staten Island’s Jade Island, the only other restaurant of this ilk that I’m aware of?

The dining room was appropriately bambooed, thatched and set off with wooden tiki carvings. A karaoke cabana was set up against one wall. Tall burgundy vinyl menus with fantastical rum-based cocktails on the front page seemed like a good sign.

But all in all the food was as I’d expected it to be: merely average. James thought the space was dreary and that little things like the duck sauce to the spicy mustard tasted off or watered down.

The cuisine isn’t meant to be mind-blowing, which is why I focused on the pupu platter for two and only ordered one entrée, General Tso Chicken. Lo mein would’ve been appropriate but I didn’t want to go overboard.

Nostalgia doesn’t come with a twentieth century price tag. The prices were a little higher than I’d expected. Sure, you can do the column A column B combos, and maybe most diners do (the Queensy crowd didn’t strike me big spenders) but a la carte dishes were well into the teens and the pupu platter was $20.

I chose a zombie to go with my sterno-warmed treats. Maybe I haven’t been giving fruity drinks a fair shake because this wasn’t half-bad.

It could be an east coast west coast thing but I never had wontons with sweet orange duck sauce growing up. I don’t really get their appeal though I do like the crunch they add to hot and sour soup. The sauces of my youth were candy apple red sweet and sour and ketchup in a little circular dish that also contained a small dab of hot mustard. My first ever job was bussing tables at a restaurant a few blocks from my high school called Hunan Garden and I’d spent the first 15 minutes of my shift pouring sticky still warm sweet and sour sauce from a tea kettle into little plastic to go containers. Hot mustard was doled out sparingly, only to the half-way mark.

The pupu platter contained thick beef wedges on skewers and spare ribs, both dangerously sinewy and wanting to occupy the open space in the back of my lower right jaw where my wisdom tooth lived three days prior. Puffy hyper-battered fantail shrimp (they always remind me of fat miniature seals) were a must. The shrimp toast was oozing oil yet I still found the crispy mousse topped triangles irresistible. The foil wrapped chicken was odd. I think it was flavored with a shitload of curry powder, kind of bitter and yellow-tinged with a hint of crushed coriander. I heard a girl at an adjacent table refer to these as Thai chicken. Maybe the curry powder makes it so? Definitely not my favorite.

The general tso wasn’t breaded and crispy as anticipated. I know there’s a real version of this dish that’s not battered, I’ve made it myself, but when I go to a restaurant of this ilk I expect crispy nuggets. There's no denying the silver dome is classy, though.

Once the fruity cocktail floodgates had opened I felt no shame in ordering a pina colada. I’m not sure if it was my vicodin (this meal ended up being a huge mistake considering I was supposed to eating soft food only) or if they actually went heavy on the rum, but I started warming to King Yum after the second drink. I still prefer Jade Island. Even though it’s in the middle of a strip mall the kitschy establishment feels more like a hideaway.

There was no rectifying our thwarted Swedish teenage vampire flick. The least offensive movie playing after 9:30pm in the immediate vicinity was The Reader in Kew Gardens. I was at least hoping for some hot cougar action (ok, I actually take issue with anyone getting that label, but especially anyone under 40) but was faced with a bit more nazi schmaltz than I would’ve liked. Bizarrely, the couple in front of us left within the first 30 minutes, before the film even went south.

King Yum * 181-08 Union Turnpike, Fresh Meadows, NY

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Mar 11

Matsugen

1/2 So many recession specials, so little time. Maybe a year ago I would’ve felt self-conscious ordering the $35 menu in a pricy restaurant, but not so much right now. Well, maybe a little bit since I didn’t notice anyone else choosing the budget options. Then again, I wouldn’t really lump myself in with the overly perfumed satin-frocked girls’ night out crews nor the large parties of Japanese businessmen, anyway.

During the afternoon I was having an unusual craving for Brazilian churrascarria, but it turned out that James was still doing that Friday Lent thing that I find highly confusing (because why would any religion’s god not want you to enjoy like every cut of meat known to man?). Seafood and noodles, it was then.

We waited in the bar for only about 10 minutes until a proper two-seater opened up (I harbor no inner commie; sharing tables just isn’t convivial to me). In the meantime, I sipped a refreshing shiso cocktail in a tumbler that was possibly meant to serve as a Japanese mojito even though seemed more like a vodka tonic. Whatever it was, the beverage was a step up from the pricier than expected Yuengling pints at Nancy Whiskey Pub a few blocks north. Six dollars for pre-7pm cheap beer in those divey (yes soothing) surroundings?

The six-course omakase is a good value, it turns out, and no the wasabi nuts don’t count as one of that sextet. The only caveat is not to expect a leisurely meal. Pacing was rapid and plates were brought well before previous dishes were finished. Maybe that’s the price you pay for being frugal.

Both tofu and miso soup are so delicate in general, I barely have an opinion about them. This could be an exemplar version and it might be lost on me.

Matsugen kampachi sashimi with spicy ponzu

The kampachi sashimi was hotter and tarter than expected despite the “spicy ponzu” giveaway in the dish’s name. As you can see, said sauce was thick and more like a coarse dressing and really adhered to thin pinkish slices of fish. I would gladly eat a larger portion of this.

The crimson hue of these shrimp makes them look potentially spicy but really the flavor came from the crispy and well-salted exterior only. You can nibble the shishito pepper for heat, if you like. A similar rosy shade tints the mayonnaise dollop evoking Thousand Island dressing, though I’m sure the condiment was not courtesy of Kraft.

Sushi time. No outsized bulging monsters here. Just fresh salmon and tuna with optimum ratio of fish to rice. It goes without saying that I could’ve eaten a few more pieces.

Soba is the only decision to be made. Mushroom or duck. Here is the meatless version served like a soup. Both sobas are warm.

The duck version is for dipping. I don’t know that it’s for eating. I mean, they don’t give you a spoon with this. I had noticed some of those Japanese businessmen holding bowls up to their mouths so assumed it wasn’t wildly uncouth but the broth was very intense and soy saucey and probably not intended for drinking neat. They do call it broth, though. It’s sauce. The seiro soba is light and a blank canvas for that that so-called broth.

Finally, the flan course or more precisely, vanilla caramel custard. I wasn’t expecting something so sweet but was happy it wasn’t black sesame sludge or green tea sorbet.

Ultimately, I wasn’t completely bowled over even though everything was well prepared. I only sampled an abbreviated menu, though. Matsugen is still worth recommending. You could expend way more energy and cash and have a much less satisfying experience.

The aspect I was most struck by had nothing to do with the food. It had to do with the service…specifically our runner. This was the third time in less than a year that I’d encountered this same guy, a soft-spoken E.A. with a high-timbered voice and accent of indeterminate origin. His presence seriously freaked the hell out of me. I first saw him at inoffensive Asiana in Kips Bay (so blah that I never wrote about it here and the review that I was sent there to write never got published). Shortly thereafter, I saw him at Cambodian Cuisine on the Upper East Side. And now at Tribeca’s Matsugen, a totally different beast in aspirations and location.

Just to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating, I asked if he used to work at Cambodian Cuisine and he then said he’d seen me before but thought it was from a previous Matsugen visit. Bizarre. James says he’s a Richard Alpert-style Other, never aging, passing through time. Me, I think he’s a part of The Pattern a la Fringe. And no, I don’t think he’s a Terminator, Hero or Cylon.

Matsugen * 241 Church St., New York, NY

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Mar 5

Krolewskie Jadlo

I’m not biased against Eastern European food; it just never occurs to me to seek it out. I lived in a Polish/Bosnian/Croatian/Romanian neighborhood for three years and didn’t sample the local fare even once. (That had more to do with not being able to afford going out to eat in the late ‘90s-early ‘00s, though. I think that’s why I originally started a dining diary. Restaurants were more of a rare treat and I liked to keep track of where I had been even if it meant no more than typing a short awkward paragraph. New Green Bo was my initial entry back in 2000, and no, it’s hardly illuminating (and I'm still not much for illumination but now I have photos to lean on) but the librarian in me likes documenting and archiving. These oldies have actually been helpful, if for nothing more than jogging my own memory.)

But while looking for something quick and cheap before attending an Oscar party in Greenpoint (that had food—I’m just spazzy about squeezing in a choice meal because I never know what might be served at a party and I don’t like taking chances. It’s kind of like how many years ago a friend, a recovered alcoholic who thought I drank too much, asked me if I drank before going to parties, as if that were a serious warning sign. Uh yeah, I did and still do and my liver is fine.) I was moved by the Krolewskie Jadlo’s regal kitsch. I’d always wondered what went on inside the restaurant with two suits of armor standing guard at the entrance.

In this case my pre-party drink was a $5 glass of cheap Shiraz (which I followed with some nice fizzy Lambrusco at the party). Maybe I do have a problem because I’m not terribly bothered by plonk; it’s what it is. Beer might’ve been a better choice than wine but at least I didn’t succumb to one of their chocolate martinis.

I will admit that I'm not sure what this spread was, though I suspect that chicken fat played a major role.

I really wanted the Polish plate (potato pancake, stuffed cabbage, pierogis and kielbasa). It was only $9 but still being the most expensive item on the entrée list, I knew it would be a gut buster. That’s not what I was looking for on this particular evening. Instead, I tried the $7.50 pork cutlet. Ok, pounded, breaded flaps of meat aren’t exactly light either but it felt like a concession. There’s never anything revelatory about a cutlet but the crust was appropriately crisp and the meat wasn’t dried out. And who hates mashed potatoes?

You can specify the starch and vegetable you want but I made no requests wanting to see what the default accompaniments might be. It looks like a beet puree and a cabbage salad. I love root vegetables and pickled things so both of these sweetly vinegared slaws worked for me.

Krolewskie Jadlo means king’s feast, which in turn means portraits of men in crowns gracing the walls. If these were actual members of royalty, I’ll never know. I liked this touch, as well as the Polish language music sampler that seemed to be a pastiche of ’90s styles. There was an alt-country ditty and a Liz Phair-like number, yet no Macarena, unfortunately.

Krolewskie Jadlo * 694 Manhattan Ave., Brooklyn, NY

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Mar 2

Lam Zhou

Hand-pulled noodles for less than five bucks are a wonderful filling thing. It’s too bad that I’m rarely in Chinatown because this would be an ideal lunch.

I recently had the opportunity to stop by Lam Zhou (previously I had only tried Sheng Wang, which I never posted here but reviewed for nymag.com) on the way to a party in one of those co-ops along the East River that look like projects. A million blocks from any subway station, I needed fortifying on the long trudge from the East Broadway F station to the F.D.R. Even though I’m not fanatical about Flight of the Conchords, I did recognize the building they use as a stand-in for the New Zealand consulate as we walked past.

Lam Zhou is typically no frills, fluorescently lit with diners ordering, slurping and out the door in minutes. No time need be wasted on deciding what to order since they really only do two things: noodle soup or dumplings. Soup requires choosing your meat from options like beef, pig’s feet or fish balls and the dumplings are both sweet and savory, boiled or fried.

Immediately after placing your order (it seems that if you’re non-Asian a server will come take your order where you sit but Chinese speakers tend to just walk into the middle of the small room and shout out their wishes to the kitchen in back) a dull thwacking sound fills the air. Dough is pounded out at a stainless steel table in a corner and long, thin noodles are coaxed from the floury mass within seconds. That’s a lot of on demand craft for $4.50. Hey, there’s an untapped artisanal product ripe for hipster plucking.

To me beef tripe is honeycomb tripe, the thick, lacy webbed part of the stomach you normally see cut into curled strips as in the center of this photo. But this bowl contained a bonanza of bit parts: cuts that looked like shiitake mushrooms, clear gelatinous tendons and darker beef slices with transparent striations.

The noodles are amazingly chewy and springy and there are a ton of them. So much that the chopsticks can barely pick up strands without succumbing to the weight. Too many bowls of noodle soup and you might develop carpal tunnel syndrome. Our waitress seemed disappointed that we didn’t also want dumplings but I knew the soup would be substantial. An ideal cushion for drinking.

I like adding in a heaping spoonful of pickled mustard greens and a tinier amount of chile oil. I don’t think anyone would mistake what’s labeled here as Chinese Bechamel for the classic white sauce.

Being a party with a large contingent of Johns Hopkins alumni, professionals from the medical field weren’t scarce. I was particularly amused to meet a psychologist who specializes in workplace matters. She thought the peanut butter and jelly hoarder I was recently fascinated by wasn’t a problem worth making an issue out of as long as the worker was doing his job well. We’ll see about that.

Lam Zhou * 144 East Broadway, New York, NY

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Mar 1

The Redhead

1/2 Starting Friday night I semi-give up on all the ridiculous food stringency, i.e. no sugar or starch, I set up for myself during the week, kind of like binge drinking but with edibles. Sure, it’s unbalanced but it works for me. Oatmeal breakfast and Little Lads vegan mush lunch allowed for fried chicken dinner.

I’d been curious about The Redhead but it struck me as one of those places that might have interesting food but also might annoy me with a cramped space and long wait times. A weeknight venture, essentially. But I went wild and made an attempt directly after work on a Friday and the timing was just right. Seating was no problem at 6:30pm but by 7pm the bar area was one solid, immobile hungry pack.

I started with a generously sized snack of the bacon peanut brittle. It wasn’t what I expected at all. Which isn’t to say that it wasn’t tasty. I was imagining shards of hard candy studded with nuts and bacon. But this was almost a dead ringer for one of my favorite Chinatown grocery store treats of peanuts tossed with thumbnail-length dried anchovies, a salty-sweet flavor combination that I don’t associate with the restaurant’s fancified Southern cooking at all. This seriously tasted Asian to me (ikan bilis in Malay). I brought home the remainders in a foil packet only to later catch our toothless cat getting into the peanuts and licking them.

I seriously though James was bullshitting me when he said he couldn’t have any because of Lent, but he did refrain from the pork-laced legumes. I’ll never understand religion. I’ve never known him to attend church, though two years ago around this time of year I came home to find him sitting on the couch, Ash Wednesday smudge on forehead. Baffling. Certainly, I grew up with Catholics but I’d never ever seen the charcoal on the face thing until I moved to NYC. I honestly had no idea what was going on the first time I encountered the practice, though I never articulated my confusion until six years ago.

So, he opted for a cod dish enhanced by fennel, shoestring potatoes and a sauce described as clam chowder. I did not take a photo because the setting was cramped, dim and awkward (though not wholly uncomfortable) as it was.

Me, I got the fried chicken. I generally find large amounts of white meat heavy and overwhelming. I just prefer a closer ratio of skin to flesh. Thankfully, the breast here wasn’t dried out in the least and the crust was very light and flaky. Both the spinach salad with apples and candied walnuts and very moist triangular wedge of cornbread satisfied love of sweetness in savory dishes. I wouldn’t have minded a biscuit in lieu of the cornbread, though.

Despite foregoing dessert we were still given a parting goodie. An intense chocolate cookie with chocolate chunks and big pockets of crystallized ginger.

The Redhead * 349 13th St., New York, NY

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Feb 25

The First Rule of Raw Milk Club

It’s not easy for me to articulate why, but I hate community (I’m also not fond of the concept of legacy). In theory, likeminded people who do things together or at least operate in overlapping social spheres with common goals would be positive, yet so much fostering of taste and values only ends up feeling inbred and smug to me.

There’s nothing wrong with creating your own chocolate from cacao or butchering your own locally sourced meat or pickling, like everything. I’ll concede that it all sounds very cool. (It’s funny that this is all coming to fruition. Eons ago, ok, in 2000, I worked at a short-lived culinary start-up founded by a respected food writer whose byline you see less regularly than you used to. I distinctly recall a group excursion to long-gone Pearson’s Barbecue where a few of us were jokingly speculating when hipsters would start getting into homemade sausages and charcuterie. Who knew it would be a reality in eight years?)

But pegging this behavior to a particular neighborhood (yes, the Times article is titled “Brooklyn’s New Culinary Movement” but this trend really only thrives in a northwestern swath of the borough among a very narrow segment of Kings County's 2.5 million residents) only serves to mythologize a scene. Maybe it’s scenes that I have issues with not community.

Gabrielle Langholtz, editor of Edible Brooklyn stated, “Every person you pass has read Michael Pollan, every person has thought about joining a raw milk club, and if they haven’t made ricotta, they want to.” Really? Raw milk clubs? Exclusive. How does one become a member in this secret dairy society? I’m waiting for a password-protected speakeasy offering unpasteurized delights. It probably already exists somewhere on my block, but you have to look like a daguerreotype come to life to gain entry.

Perhaps I’m just a killjoy. I can’t get into the countless indie cook-offs: pies, chili, casseroles that also a growing Brooklyn staple, any more than I want to be a part of chef worship, the glam other extreme exemplified by the South Beach Food & Wine Festival being covered to death by a certain strata of food blogs this week.

My feelings on this so-called movement can be summed up using the same words Bruni used to describe Buttermilk Channel, the restaurant spitting distance from my apartment that was today’s one-star review (can’t believe I’m using his prose to express my feelings). “It’s laudable and predictable in equal measures.” True that.

Of course I love food; I just find it hard to care about precious foodie fads, and ones so close to home, no less. One might argue that the problem lies with me rather than those pursuing their supposed culinary passions. It’s very possible that I’m simply jealous of artisanal entrepreneurs because I’m tied to a day job for survival (who could afford $8 bars of chocolate without steady work?) Oh, and that there isn’t a single foodstuff I’d even be inclined to make, perfect and sell.

Hmm, the comments section of the Diner's Journal is getting mildly heated (the space was intended for questions to be passed along to the subjects of the Brooklyn-centric article, but it's filling up with cranky statements instead). I'm surprised that there's surprise over a backlash.

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Posts from the ‘NYC’ Category

Butcher Bay

Char No. 4

10 Downing

Pa is My Co-Pilot

King Yum

Matsugen

Krolewskie Jadlo

Lam Zhou

The Redhead

The First Rule of Raw Milk Club

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